About six years ago I started travelling to and from Dublin city centre by train courtesy of a very well-known State transport company.
Since then, the desire to use extreme violence against fellow passengers, train company staff and, indeed, random passers-by has being building. A trickle has turned into a torrent.
Frustrated beyond the normal frustration levels, that one should expect in day-to-day life, today's Emissions is seriously considering returning to the glorious automobile - warts, traffic jams, petrol prices, Morning Ireland, Matt Cooper and all - to take me to and from the office.
It was probably when the man with the oversized wallet in his trouser pocket got on the train and sat down beside me for the fifth day running, that I realised public transport was irking me to the point of attack on my fellow man. I'm sure he's a right-on geezer and his family loves him very much, but have you ever heard of an inside jacket pocket mate? What's in that wallet that incessantly rubs off my outer leg in that hard-to-detect but definitely-annoying way. Have you ever heard of personal space?
I even started sitting on the opposite side of the train but Bulging Pocket Man seemed to follow. There I am every morning tucking into a crisp copy of The Irish Times, favourite tunes banging out on the MP3 player (heaven itself) and thump! Bulging Pocket Man strikes again. Thinking of my four-wheeled delight sitting outside the house, all empty and lovely, spacious and quiet, just made the feeling worse.
I tried changing carriages but was thwarted in my search for car-like comfort. Here I was confronted with Half Asleep Woman who insisted on sitting beside me and proceeded to continuously fall asleep in close proximity to my shoulder. For the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, Allah, and the saints above, please, can you fall asleep the other way, if it's not too much trouble? Do I look like a pillow? Have I put on that much weight that my shoulder looks all bouncy and alluring for a perfect stranger to fall asleep on it. I haven't worn shoulder pads since my Confirmation Day.
It got me to thinking. Why did I sacrifice car commuting for Iarnrod Eireann and Friends? The comfort of the carriages? Don't think so - the seats are marginally more comfy than a kitchen chair but they're no sittingroom recliners. Was it the price of the tickets? Maybe, an annual ticket from Drogheda (yes, a Louth man is in your midst) is cheaper than a round-the world ticket. But not that much cheaper. No, it wasn't that either. It wasn't any of these things.
It was the car's fault, rest its poor little Japanese imported soul. My first car; an extremely old, in-need-of-a-wax, 3-door, 4-speed Mitsubishi Colt, with grey plastic as far as the eye can see and off-grey cloth a plenty. It went like a bomb (and sounded like one at times) until the clutch gave up the ghost, but it was by no means the raw material for a pleasant journey.
The fact that the front left indicator was held on with a sliver of wood between it and the bodywork sent me into the arms of Iarnrod Eireann. All is changed utterly now.
These days it's expected that those who grace this little corner of The Irish Times with their rantings drive approaching-nice cars. Daddy Emissions, as you will know, is the proud owner of a Bavarian green goddess and so last September today's Emissions made a similar purchase. She's a 318i for sure, but nothing compared to the likes of what you might see on the back page of a Wednesday.
She's black and shiny and the clutch works well. She even has five gears not including reverse, although there's not a whiff of that "triptronic" stuff and you actually have to move your hand backwards and forwards to change gears. But she roars at the lights and the interior is a dream to be in.
SO Bulging Pocket Man, Half Asleep Woman and even Old School Friend I'm Trying to Avoid and Weirdo Chatty Tootless Guy, you're all welcome to the train, I think I might move on to better things.
So it may take twice as long, it may even be bad for the environment, cost a fortune, but wouldn't it be nice to actually drive to work? Even just once in a while. I mean, with road tax the way it is, it would be nice to get just a little bit of value out of the roads. Four empty seats for my "stuff", music as loud as I want, heat at MY setting, no stopping and door-opening. Ah, bliss.
Kilian Doyle is on leave
